


Need

by Sebastiona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebastiona/pseuds/Sebastiona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does in fact have a strong, active sex drive. Who knew? Hurt, pain and glory. John wouldn't have it any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

It's not often that he tells you that he needs you.

Only when he's highly intoxicated and can't find his shoe-lace from his collar-button. Or when he's got stomach ache from too much good food. Hangovers and comedowns and man-flu. He doesn't cope well with those either.

Scraped shins and purple bruises. There are some things he can swallow. Horse pills and needles and hours of endless concentration. He's got a knack of dealing with erections. Taunting his opposition. Beckoning them with fingers, lips, eyes, his less-than-subtle vocabularly.

Opposition. Us mere mortals. Something to conquer. Another challenge. Another fight. Another meal.

That way he looks at you.

Too much gentleman and not enough man.

Fuck being polite and minding your manners.

He needs you. 

Like the wildfire spreading from the pit of your stomach to every inch of flesh.

The wildfire that spreads as his tongue curls around yours. Purposefully sloppy and slow and wet and needing and wanting and sucking the breath from your lungs.

Your half-hearted protests deafened with his kiss, heart hammering against your ribs, the echo of fingers tracing the line of hair from your stomach and further...

He's got a way of grinding his hips against yours that makes you lose sense of time, space, gravity, life. 

Heaven and blue skies and everything inbetween.

His kisses play melodies against every minute mole and freckle his tongue can reach. He's pulling you back and back and back through a door, in the back of your head.

Another night, another dimension.

The last time he kissed you and placed a hand around your throat, commanding you to obey him.

And could you ever refuse?

His hands wrapped around you, caught between your pants and your stomach, aching and itching for air, space, release. 

It's hot. 

Sticky. 

Sickly. 

Tiresome. 

Nothing like it's meant to be. But everything that he wants it to be. It's how he likes it. Inconvenient and dirty and quick and painful. His slave to his fetishes.

He's got you cornered. 

Shoved up against the wall. 

Nose first. Lips kissing paint and he's God. 

His opposition losing the battle of strength. Face to face with defeat. He's pushing himself within you, lips pressed against the back of your neck. His hot sticky fingers branding the curve of your spine. 

You grin, knowing you'll always be his biggest conquest. That pain and fucking glory and your hand between your legs and greeting his rhythm, slow and quick and hard and erratic, like the breath between your lips, like the fingernails clenching your hips and the teeth sinking deeper and deeper into your shoulder.

'I need you. I need you.'

You're not quite sure if you imagine it.

You're sure that you're sure you heard it.

There's fucking like you mean it. Then there's fucking like you need it.


End file.
